


The Topkapi Job

by Mizzy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case!fic. Gen. It's no secret that Nate enjoys the complicated heists, giving him an excuse to stretch his brain and his crew, but complicated would be pushing it to describe their latest job. What should be an easy heist in Arlington, Texas to retrieve a replica emerald dagger descends into madness when their client 'does a Nate' and tells the Mark that the dagger is going to be stolen. Defeating IYS' security to steal the dagger would be difficult enough, except IYS have a secret weapon on their hands.</p><p>A secret weapon named James Sterling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Topkapi Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caitriona_3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=caitriona_3).



**Part A:**   
**The Set-up**

 **0.**   
**(Malcolm Carver** **—** _**The Client** _ **)**

Malcolm Carver took his job seriously.

It was what made him one of the most respected names in Arlington at the beginning of his career, and now in the twilight years of his career his name was known by every major company across the state of Texas. He had contracts state-wide, and his son was expanding the Carver franchise into Louisiana and New Mexico. Malcolm Junior didn't have the most stringent head for business, it was true, but he followed instructions to the letter, and following the 'Carver model' Malcolm had created over the decades, Junior's expansion would be very successful indeed.

Or it would be, if some idiot company from Los Angeles hadn't started to encroach on his territory. One by one, even his most faithful contracts were being taken from him. This IYS company—apparently an insurance company that was trying the expansion thing too—was undercutting him by ridiculous amounts. Most of the time because Malcolm had already set up the security, and IYS were swooping in once he'd done most of the leg work, leaving Malcolm clutching his initial down payment and little else.

Carver's reputation was all he had, and that was being taken away, one contract at a time. It wasn't  _fair_. Malcolm was a twentieth generation Arlington gentleman, a pillar of the society, and he had done his best for his city, securing all the major buildings. Doing his best to test his security systems to the extreme, even hiring criminals to road test them for him so he knew where the weaknesses lay.

And IYS was taking it all away from him.

Taking the Museum of Art away, Malcolm's first ever contract, was the final straw.

Malcolm took a deep breath as he pushed open the doors to the Museum. He bought a ticket from the front desk, and cast a glance around, pretending he was just adjusting his grip on his walking stick. Old age was a bitch. He stretched his aching muscles exaggeratedly.

The system he installed there last year was an incredible masterpiece. It had to. Arlington's Museum of Art wasn't exactly a stronghold by architectural design, but a new owner had swooped in at the beginning of the year, a board member of Six Flags who wanted to expand their investment portfolio, and transformed the place. It still had the same large main room, and the curve of the floor above where you could see up to the cafe, but the new owner—Jonathan Grimes—had expanded outwards, cutting up the neat little verges of grass that had been so nice surrounding the place. Gone were the meagre displays and the cheesy annual Dungeon of Doom for Halloween. Gone were the terrible reviews on Google which were all cons about the place being too expensive for the contents. 

Malcolm had done his job, setting up a state of the art security system, one that worked incredibly well. It competed with the security systems of the Internationally recognized museums—he even won a commendation for it at the Security Convention he attended in February, and the company who secured the Louvre were on the judging panel for that.

So of course, IYS just swooped in, and Jonathan Grimes let them.

Malcolm had Googled Jonathan Grimes the instant he heard. Grimes hadn't even bothered to tell him in person, just letting IYS send one of their smarmy lawyers to his front door, dropping a bundle of paperwork heavier than Arlington's phone directory at his feet and swanning away. Like that paperwork smashing on the ground hadn't cracked apart Malcolm's last nerve on the matter.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't  _fair_. Malcolm's hand clenched around the top of his stick and he walked stiffly over to where Grimes was chatting with one of the IYS schmucks in a suit.

There were enough people for this to cause a total scene.

He opened his mouth, and started to shout.

 **1.**   
**(Nathan Ford** _**—** _ _**The Man With A Plan)**   
_

Nathan Ford was pretty much sure he was hallucinating.

That, or his team hadn't listened to him.

Actually, based on the last few months, the latter was increasingly more likely. He rubbed his temples and blinked a couple of times anyway, just in case, but the image remained: there they were. In his apartment. Lounging around. Just half an hour after he'd been generous and given them a week off. It seemed the thing to do after the con they'd just worked. Nate was exhausted and was looking forward to some  _sleep_. Hopefully soon. But with the three of his crew milling around, making noise, sleep seemed like once again it was going to by a mythical, unachievable thing.

 _Wait, three?_

Nate's brain was going slower than he'd like—their last con had meant staying awake for 48 hours, pouring over video footage, piecing together clues like it was all part of an epic jigsaw; eventually Hardison spotted their client in one scene by a TV, which proved that the client had an identical twin from the timestamp on the robbery footage, and those two pieces of footage were in the police's grasp now. 

 _Identical twins_. Nate had laughed his ass off - his crew had been jealous, and Nate had to suppress the urge to be disappointed in their jealousy, because it wasn't  _oh, I would never be alone_  jealousy, it was  _if I had an identical twin and no one knew, how many illegal things could I do??_  jealousy, and Nate's constant war between being a thief and an honest man once again continued to eternally tear himself in two.

Still, where had his brain gone to? It was somewhere interesting. Yes.  _Three_. There were only three of them in his apartment. Sophie was sat with Hardison, looking at his laptop at something. He couldn't see what it was. Nate glanced up at his light fitting—shiny and bright and amazingly reflective—and caught a reflection of a pair of shoes. Ah, yes, Sophie had mentioned something last month about Hardison teaching her how to use eBay.

Eliot wasn't doing much, drinking beer and staring out of the window. Since San Lorenzo, Eliot had spent a lot of time doing it. Nate empathised fiercely, but he didn't know what to say to him to make it better. There wasn't anything anyone could say to make it better. Better didn't exist. Time might dull things. Of course, Eliot  _could_  drink beer and stare out of the window at his own apartment, but the last three cons had taken them around the globe—Eliot was probably out of supplies at his own apartment.

So it was Parker that wasn't here, and Nate wasn't surprised. She liked her own space as much as he liked his. He probably should set up a secret hideaway so he could actually get some space, but they'd find him ridiculously quickly so there wasn't much point.

Well, Nate realized, if he  _really_  wanted private space, he'd find a way. The fact that he hadn't found a way yet meant subconsciously he mustn't really want to be alone. 

Sophie told him once that he thought too much, and it was true—he was reaching that level now. Without a con on to think about, his brain was already filling up with the same old thoughts. Nothing but hindsight, and analysing every failure, every misstep, and how he knew  _now_  exactly what he should have done to avoid everything he'd ever done wrong, and-

It wasn't a good path to go down. Nate needed to blank it out. Alcohol would do it, of course, and each time it was a necessary evil—finding his right balance. Finding the level between making the thoughts go away and letting his brain still work right. All right, maybe he was still working on  _finding_  that right level, but he was trying.

Or he was running away. But he pushed that thought away. His brain was already too raw. He headed towards the fridge to join Eliot in a beer and possibly some of the window staring, but his thoughts were de-railed by the door opening.

They all turned. Nate caught a glimpse of Eliot in the corner of his eye, quietly placing his beer and grabbing hold of the nearest dense object, a hardback copy of  _The Cherry Orchard_  which had to belong to Sophie—he could see a glimpse of neon yellow where Sophie had obviously highlighted her lines. He was tense himself. Sophie and Hardison froze too, but Nate relaxed a fraction—it was just Parker.

Except then he tensed up again, because there was someone else standing behind her. Eliot neared Nate, coming up to stand beside him, the book still concealed behind his back. He didn't trust the man with Parker, and Nate didn't blame him—unknown factors made them all a bit jumpy since trapping Moreau in San Lorenzo, because for all their bravado, both Nate and Eliot knew it wasn't a 100% secure trap. There was always the slim chance someone as clever as him would get out, and that meant they could never be safe.

It also meant they could make the others  _think_  they were safe, which was the best compromise they could make in the situation.

"Parker?" Nate stepped forward a little. Eliot bristled at him, displeased at him moving forwards, but Nate ignored Eliot's automatic reaction to anything new and strange—the man behind Parker was clearly physically frail, and he wasn't holding Parker at gunpoint. Parker was there standing with him of her own free will, which meant he was an ally.

Or  _Parker_  considered him an ally, which didn't guarantee him an ally for them.

"I need you guys. I don't ask for much," Parker said, all in a rush like she'd practiced it, but without Sophie's help, she'd forgotten to slow it down. "But I'm asking now. I need a favor."

"Which is?" Nate prompted, feeling on edge.

"This guy is Malcolm Carver. I used to work for him, testing his security systems. He just got screwed by IYS, Nate. We need to help him." Parker looked directly at Nate. Nate felt a small rush of pride for her, even though it was inappropriate—he was proud at her being able to use even this small level of emotional manipulation on him. His honest side withered to let his thief side dance a little happily in his head—developments like this ensured Parker was safer in the world than she used to be, and that was definitely something to celebrate. "Please, Nate."

Nate glanced at the others to guage their reactions. Hardison's gaze as always was locked on Parker. He was a definite yes. Eliot was less tense, which was acceptance. Sophie inclined her head, barely noticeable, but it was a  _yes_  too. 

He turned back to Parker and smiled at her. "Although IYS is definitely a compelling selling point, you had us from  _I need you_."

\- - - -

Malcolm told his story concisely, and Nate watched him the whole time while Hardison did his usually security checks alongside him, verifying the story at every step. Malcolm Carver had run a security company starting in Arlington, Texas for the last forty years. Parker had been hired on the books as a consultant for two years, checking his security systems for him. IYS had stepped up its security game, consistently undercutting clients all over the place; there was an IYS branch in San Antonio that Nate had been to once, and this Southern takeover was probably spiralling out from there.

Nate asked Malcolm to wait downstairs so they could decide if they were going to help. Malcolm graciously accepted that ruling, and tottered off to the elevator on his own.

As soon as the front door slammed, Parker turned to Nate, looking a little furious. 

"What do you mean  _time to decide if we're going to help him_ ," she demanded. "If you're not, I am, I swear I will go on my own-"

"Parker, we're going to help. We just don't let clients sit in on the discussion on how to do it, remember? It's safer for Malcolm to have as much deniability about this as he can, and you want him to be safe, right?" Sophie leaned in, and touched Parker's hand. Sophie shot Nate an angry look over Parker's shoulder, and he shrugged. That's what he'd meant. Sophie just put it better sometimes.

Parker relaxed visibly. "Good. Because Malcolm was good to me. But-"

"Uh, should there be  _buts_  at this stage?" Eliot questioned.

Parker smiled, teeth wide. "There's a problem."

Nate smiled, because it was better than thumping his head against the table repeatedly. "Of course. And-"

"I've got it here." Parker waved a USB stick, and Hardison reached out for it. Parker clamped it between her hands.

"Parker, I need it to play it," Hardison told her.

"Why? Like it's a lot of effort for you to slide your laptop on over," Parker said.

"It's less effort for you to pass me that dinky little USB pen," Hardison returned.

"You're not the only person in the room who knows how to double click on those little square things," Parker said.

"They're called icons, and no you  _can't_."

Nate sank down in the chair a little, fighting the urge to just cover his face in his hands and cry. Sometimes he felt as if giving up his honest and downwards-spiralling life in return for this equally-spiralling dishonest one was a good idea, but times like this, it just felt like he'd somehow accidentally signed up to be a babysitter.

"I can do it-" Parker said, reaching for Hardison's laptop. Hardison clamped his arms around it protectively, glaring at her.

"No, you can't."

"Technically, she managed it last time," Eliot said.

" _After_  she got the lid stuck to the base with super glue," Hardison said, sounding wounded.

"What are you getting mad about," Parker returned immediately, "I unstuck it.  _Hand it over_."

"Yeah, you unstuck it by pouring white spirits on my machine." Nate winced on Hardison's behalf. "It barely survived. Just _give me the damned USB pen_."

"Does that work? I thought I had to push it in myself for it to work."

Nate intervened before his head exploded or he shot one of them. Whichever came first. "Parker, pass him the pen. Hardison, don't even try and look smug. 

"The Arlington Museum of Art is hosting a replica of the Topkapi dagger, you know, from the film? It's part of a travelling exhibition. Malcolm went to check it out, double check the security, you know? See if there was a flaw he could use to discredit IYS. But the new owner of the museum, Jonathan Grimes was there," Parker explained. Hardison pushed in the pen and double clicked on the AVI file. "Malcolm. He, uh, lost his head a little."

" _Grimes! Grimes, you son of a bitch, call yourself an Arlington man? You've just spat on everything Arlington stands for. I'm gonna- I'm gonna- I'm gonna steal your goddamned precious two million dollar dagger, see how stupid your new security measures are, you'll see you should have stayed with me, you liver-pickled, rat-ass fink, I'll-“_

There were several more choice words. Nate stared. Malcolm Carver had, well, he had balls. And a very wide vocabulary. And a lot of rage for a sixty year old. Malcolm Carver was clearly very passionate about his work, and IYS had stomped all over that. Nate felt the sympathy build up in his gut, along with that almost  _singing_  glee, that maybe, just maybe, he could get one over on IYS.

But that glee also brought a chorus of doubt: anything IYS clouded his judgement. He couldn't make the decision on his own.

He stared at the video as Hardison played it again, and voiced it. "Guys. You know I want to do this. But I need you all on board. When IYS is involved-"

"You get a bit fruit loopy," Hardison commented. "Like this Malcolm dude."

"He's not a dude, he's a gentleman," Parker said. "Be more respectful to your elders."

Hardison pulled a face at her, and Nate was about to turn to them and make some sarcastic comment, but something else caught his eye. He froze. The glee and sympathy warring in his gut froze.

Nate lurched for Hardison's laptop, pulling it away before the hacker could protest, and he hit the spacebar, pausing the video. He held shift and toggled with the arrow key, going through the frames one by one until he saw what he  _thought_ he'd seen.

He had.

"Is that-?" Sophie said, leaning forwards. 

Nate nodded. Hardison, Parker and Eliot all leaned forwards. Eliot even got out of his chair to look closer.

"What? What did I miss?" Hardison demanded, looking between them.

"Sterling," Parker realized. Her small voice echoed in the large apartment. No one said a thing to interrupt her. "That's Sterling? Working  _with_  them?"

There was a long pause.

Eliot was the one to break it.

"So, basically," Eliot said, "we've got to steal something from right under Sterling's nose? Great. Excellent. Amazing. Apart from the fact Sterling will be a) watching us and b) he knows every single con in the book." 

Eliot flung himself down on his chair, and stared at nothing in particular. It seemed like the thing to do.

Hardison's throat apparently had a steam train in it, thundering on its breaks to a shrieking close. Or he thought it wasn't exactly a possible idea. Eliot threw a disgusted look at him, but he didn't say anything, because they were all thinking, in various forms,  _oh my god we're doomed._

All of them, except Nate. Of course.

He smiled.

"Oh, no, I know that smile," Eliot said.

"It's a very distinctive smile," Parker broke in. She grinned suddenly and Hardison held up his hand for a high-five at Eliot's expression. Parker stared at Hardison's raised hand until he lowered it.

"Nate?"

Nate grinned at Eliot. "Then we use a con he knows. We use a con  _everyone_  knows. So when Sterling falls for it, he's going to look like the biggest idiot of all time. Hardison, bring up Netflix."

"Your account, coming up," Hardison said, "with all it's seasons of Sex and the City in six screen glory."

Nate grinned tightly as the others tittered. He ignored Hardison and said, "We're going to need to look in the thriller and crime sections. I'm going to go get the popcorn. You find me heist movies." He pushed off the sofa, and strode towards the kitchen, and glanced back at them with a smile. "Let's go steal us a famous movie heist."

\- - - -

They watched  _Topkapi_  first as it seemed appropriate; it didn't take long for them to start basically recreating  _Mystery Science Theatre_. Nate didn't blame them. The intro was pretty psychedelic, and the heist was a little sub-par (although when Nate commented Parker could do some of the acrobatics, she bared her teeth at him and growled. He'd meant it was  _easy_  for her, not that the leaps were at the pinnacle of her talent. It was safer to take the growl than try and explain that to her.) Sterling was as melodramatic as Nate was—he would have boned up on the film too, although there weren't too many useful things in it. At the end of  _Topkapi_ , the thieves were betrayed by pigeons being let loose into the museum, giving the inspector the clue to who perpetrated the spate of heists across the globe, letting him melodramatically declare: "A little bird told him."

Sterling would definitely use that against them, if he could. What Sterling was even doing there was a little baffling. Hardison was doing some research, but Nate would almost guarantee Sterling was receiving a consultancy fee from IYS—something Interpol did allow.

Hardison fast forwarded through a bunch of other heist movies.  _Ocean's Eleven_ was the classic, and Nate especially liked the con where the team in the remake replicated the whole room. They could use that.  _Inside Man_  had a brilliant bit where Clive Owen hid in a fake wall. They'd done that before, hiding in the room below, and Sterling never caught on—but he'd had time to think, so maybe they couldn't do the  _hiding in a room below_  thing again.  _The Sting_  was brilliant but Nate couldn't bring a Big Store con into play in this situation without being ridiculous, and Sterling was smart. Really smart. Nate should know—he'd pretty much trained him.  _Wisdom_  was a film where they didn't steal a thing—they destroyed mortgages instead. Nate wasn't entirely sure  _Serenity_ was really a heist movie, and there was nothing useable in it, but it was good background noise while Nate's brain worked on the problem.

He drew the line at watching  _Inception_.

"It's a  _classic_ ," Hardison protested.

"It only came out a year ago," Sophie said.

"Guys-" Nate tried to interrupt.

"I don't know why we have to watch these weird things anyway." Parker slumped in her seat. "I'm bored."

"It doesn't matter," Nate said.

"That's because you only like fiction if it's Roald Dahl," Eliot said, ignoring him.

"His were the only books Archie ever let me steal," Parker explained.

"We're not watching any more today," Nate said.

"Seriously? That's like.. like...Well, seeing as we're going to Arlington, that's like going to Six Flags and never going on the rides," Hardison said.

"Archie took me to Six Flags once. We never went on the rides."

"That's terrible," Sophie said.

"We stood under the rollercoasters to catch the wallets that people dropped," Parker said. "Good times."

Nate was definitely, definitely, definitely positive he had signed up for babysitting, not Masterminding for the greatest criminal minds in the West as everyone thought. He gave up and got to his feet. "GUYS. COME ON. YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE."

Parker, Sophie, Hardison and Eliot turned to him.

"You don't have to shout, we're not deaf," Hardison said sulkily.

Nate stared at him in disbelief for a second. Eliot sniggered, and Nate exhaled. Maybe he wasn't babysitting, because that implied his charges were human. Monkeys. He was monkeysitting. Definitely.

"I take it you've got a plan," Sophie said. "Or you wouldn't be so rude."

Nate swallowed the urge to start shouting again, and Sophie grinned, revealing that she was deliberately winding him up. Nate regretted for the thousandth time that it wasn't legal grounds for stabbing someone. It would just be a  _little_ stab wound, after all, nowhere visible or dangerous...

Nate shook it away, and loaded up the  _Ocean's Eleven_  remake again. "I have a plan."

 **2.**   
**(James Sterling** _**—** _ _**The Man Who Always Wins)**   
_

There was nothing that could damage Sterling's mood. He was pretty positive of that.

He only took the consulting job in the first place because he owed the San Antonio IYS branch manager a favor. He never dreamed it would lead to the nice healthy chunk of Interpol-allowed change in his bank account, or the spread of possibility now he knew he could use his own experience and expertise in this manner as a consultant. He might even be able to retire in ten years. He called it his  _ten year plan_ , and so far, it was shaping up quite nicely.

Not even his Ford-alert could trigger a bad mood.

Of course he had eternal feelers out for Ford and his merry team of wacky dysfunctional outlaws. It was like buying life insurance, and using a credit card to buy your holiday instead of cash—a mandatory safety net for his ass. It was only a matter of time before Ford stuck his admittedly slightly wonky nose into Sterling's matters, and Sterling meant to enjoy every minute of it.

He didn't interfere when he clocked them setting up home in a small Motel 6 a few miles out from Arlington. It was very probable Ford already knew Sterling was there. Once upon a time, it might have fazed him, but Ford had made his position clear. The moment he stood there on the docks, handcuffing himself to the railing, that was the moment Sterling knew—Nate had died with Sam in the crappy hospital room, and Ford was just a person who looked the same, and thought nearly the same, but was as much a petty thief as the rest of the people Sterling hounded down every day.

Sterling had been able to distance himself emotionally from Nathan Ford, but he doubted Ford had—Ford was always too in touch with his own emotions, too concerned with feelings and guilt, probably from his dubious upbringing as the son of Boston's biggest crime lord. This was something Sterling definitely knew he could use.

He could, of course, get some of the IYS security team to tail Ford's crew, but Sterling enjoyed doing it himself the best. It was much more dramatically satisfying. That was a flaw, that he enjoyed the more dramatic conclusions to his winning tales, but as long as the reach for dramatic irony didn't overshadow the catch, didn't cause it to fail, Sterling saw no need to change. He was just that awesome. One day the world would catch up to the fact and he'd never need to work again—the top step of his  _ten year plan_.

Step one—following Spencer.

Ford, Devereaux, Hardison and Parker were looking at warehouses for some reason. Sterling would figure it out later. Spencer was the one on the move, so he was the best one to follow.

Following any one of them would give him vital clues to solve whatever jigsaw puzzle Ford had cooked up in his head this time.

Sterling knew for sure that Ford knew he was in Arlington the instant Spencer went for the rented car, because after a stop at a hardware store for a random collection of tools (it was a relatively small place—even though Sterling knew there would be no digital register of what Spencer had bought, and Spencer will have paid in cash, the cashier would be able to remember enough of it when he tracked him down later to give Sterling enough of a clue to what they were constructing) that even though he put the bags in the back seats of the car, Spencer checked the trunk of the car, making sure it was empty.

The whole team definitely knew of Sterling's past history and stubbornness—Sterling's record was three days in one person's trunk, just to catch them red-handed. What Ford's team  _didn't_  know was that Sterling had gotten much more tech-savvy over the last couple of years. He traded money and privileges with a hacker in some prison or other that Ford had gotten incarcerated—Colin Mason—and Colin (or Chaos as he liked to be called; hackers were strange, crazy people) was quite happy to teach Sterling some basic computer surveillance and manipulation tricks in return for the money, the favors, and the knowledge Sterling was going to screw Alec Hardison and Sophie Devereaux with the new skills.

All it had taken was for Sterling to tail Spencer to the car rental place, and then he casually deployed a GPS tracker on the car. Spencer hadn't even checked the car for bugs.  _Amateur_.

It meant Sterling could tail Spencer without worrying about Spencer clocking the tail, because he could follow from a couple of blocks back and not worry about Spencer noticing him in his wing mirror. Sterling quite liked his body. He worked hard to maintain it, to stay fit, and he knew he was a handsome specimen—he didn't relish the idea of Spencer using his Hitter expertise on said handsome body if he didn't have to.

And he didn't have to—that's what Sterling's brains were for. To outsmart the lot of them.

Spencer stopped at a jeweller's. Sterling caught a glimpse of the man at the counter, and the guy's face rang an alarm bell in the back of Sterling's mind. The reason Sterling had been such a good IYS retriever—and was now a brilliant Interpol agent - was because of his ability to connect the most random details that others would miss and bring them together into a bigger picture. He checked their co-ordinates on the Garmin GPS he'd rigged to track Spencer, and the street name, and his brain clicked all the details into place—the store was run by Edwin Armitidge. Armitidge had a criminal record. Sterling hadn't met him, but he'd run some paperwork on some thieves who had used Armitidge to copy some famous pieces.

Armitidge was a forger.

So Ford was hoping to swap the Topkapi-replica, with its oh-so-very real expensive emeralds, for a fake.

Sterling noted down the number of the shop to return later, but he couldn't do it now—Spencer was back in the car, and driving.

The next place Spencer pulled up in was a golf range. When Spencer stepped out of the car and pulled off his jacket, Sterling noticed something that he had missed. He cursed under his breath, because Spencer's shoes should have given him away—Spencer preferred the soft kind of boot, strong enough and steel-tipped to cause damage, but with enough give in the material to provide the right kind of flexibility for whatever move Spencer needed to make. But he was wearing some kind of sneaker with a spiked bottom—golf shoes.

Sterling looked across at Spencer's slightly sporty looking outfit as he headed for reception, and then he looked down at his own dark, dark clothing. He sighed—he was going to have to stay outside. Ford never made things easy for him.

Which, if he was honest, was exactly the way he liked it.

 **3.**   
**(Eliot Spencer** _**—** _ _**The Man Who Really Is Not A Grifter)**   
_

Eliot Spencer was not a grifter.

Whenever he retrieved things in the past, no matter what they were—item, money people - for the most part he went in as himself. There were a few times he went in as a fake doctor, because that meant more women were likely to flirt with him—and those few times, he'd had enough time to prep and get himself into character that it didn't feel awkward.

Grifting on the cuff was something he just was not comfortable with, and while he'd had a couple of hours to try and fit into this personality, it wasn't quite right.

Thankfully, no one expected a golfer to really talk much if they were good, and one thing Eliot was good at was hitting things. Even if it was a ridiculously tiny ball with a weirdly shaped stick.

Nate technically should be the one here as he'd fronted the last few Golf-related con moves. But they needed all hands on deck back at the Museum of Art replica room they were creating in the warehouse they'd rented, and for Nate to pull off being a good golfer they needed Hardison along for the ride. And Sophie too, as distraction. They couldn't spare Hardison, which meant whoever was playing needed to be decent without a remote-controlled golf ball, which meant Eliot.

Besides, Eliot was easy to tail. Or so Nate had said. Eliot took it as an insult, because that's what a whole load of what Nate had been saying to him had sounded like recently. 

He couldn't be that easy to tail—Eliot hadn't seen a single glimpse of Sterling. Nate reassured him it was okay if Sterling _didn't_  tail him, because they needed this moment with Joseph Grimes to size up that part of the operation, and Eliot was so glad that Nate was apparently preparing all aspects of the con, working out some of the unknown factors, that he didn't want to push any further. Not this time, anyway.

He caught sight of Grimes at the bar, and adjusted his gloves. Hardison had got him onto the club's list effortlessly, like he was just ordering a drink, and Eliot could do one thing as easily as that—he slid in next to Grimes and signalled himself a glass of vodka and coke. Eliot wasn't Nate, and he couldn't even pretend to function properly while drunk, but he'd eaten a stick of butter in the car and his stomach was lined enough for the alcohol not to bother him. It was an old trick, to let others think you were more inebriated than you were. To make you more harmless to a Mark. To make them underestimate you.

People always underestimated Eliot anyway, but he liked to give nature a helping hand on occasion.

"You heading out or have you already been?" 

Grimes twitched, and looked at Eliot sideways, as if surprised the question was directed at him. Eliot smiled at him encouragingly, using the smile Sophie had made him practice until his face was sore. Apparently his regular smile was a little too creepy to use while on the grift.

Grimes didn't look like much of an opponent, paunchy and balding, clearly born into money from the gaudy sovereign ring wedged on the wrong finger, his ring finger too swollen for it. Eliot wondered if Grimes even had any consideration of what he had done accepting IYS' offer. He probably didn't. To these guys it was all business, all numbers. It didn't matter what happened to the people attached to the numbers because these guys weren't even aware regular people existed. Anger curled in Eliot's stomach, low and hot. Usually Grimes' kind of people underestimated Eliot too, and usually that led to a deliciously violent kind of comeuppance for them.

But not this time. Nate had forbidden Eliot from punching Grimes... unless he uncovered something which meant he really deserved it.

"Already been," Grimes said. "You?"

"Might not even go out. Sometimes I just like to escape, you know?"

"I hear you." Grimes lifted his glass. The bartended pushed Eliot's drink into his hand and he clinked the cheer, sharing a conspiratorial smile. Grimes eyed the drink, considering it. "Hitting the vodka at midday, a hard day, huh?"

"Not great. I swerved to avoid hitting a deer the other week, and my lousy insurance company claim fender bending my Audi was my fault, so they're not paying up." Eliot tipped up his glass as if taking a mouthful, but only let a sip of the liquid into his mouth. The familiar burn of the alcohol caught the back of his throat. Sometimes he wondered how Nate could down the stuff like it was water, but then sometimes he remembered his nightmares and he knew. "I definitely regret switching to IYS." Eliot fought the urge to smile. The information Hardison had found on Grimes was pretty good—Grimes had one arrest on his warrant, for animal activism in his youth, protesting about animal testing or something. Eliot's little lie of a story would appeal to Grimes' empathy,  _and_  badmouth IYS. Hardison definitely had his uses. Not that Eliot would ever admit so to Hardison's face.

"IYS?" Grimes frowned a little. "I'm with them."

"Their fees are good. Who knows. Just wish I'd stuck with Carver Co for my car collection, y'know? At least that guys a proper Texan gentleman. Not like that surly bloke I spoke with this morning. "

"I met him."

Eliot nodded commiseratively. Grimes' breath was clear, no alcohol. It had to mean something. He decided to risk the push to find out. "Your day's obviously not too bad, though?"

Grimes frowned at him, then looked at Eliot's gaze—directed at his own glass. "Oh, the orange juice, no, uh, additives? For my allergies. I'm on these anti-histamines."

"Oh, the ones that make you drowsy." Eliot nodded, and pushed his glass away.

Grimes squinted at him. "The fumes of yours aren't dangerous for me, don't worry."

Eliot smiled. Carefully. "No, I just thought- You got here by taxi, right?"

Grimes nodded. His eyes scanned Eliot's face, unsure of what Eliot was getting at. "Yes?"

"Then I'm driving you back, man."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Grimes said, holding up his hand. "I'm-"

"I could do with some company over lunch. You'd be doing me a favor. I'm driving a rental, and you can drown out the sound of its engine for me if you'd like. Make me forget I didn't crush my car just because I get stupid over animals." Eliot smiled hopefully at the guy.

Grimes blushed a little and nodded. Eliot's stomach dropped a little. Hardison's research would have brought up Grimes' sexuality, why-

Oh. This would be why  _Eliot_  was there, and not Sophie.

Grimes passed him a lunch menu, and Eliot's stomach growled at the selection. Sometimes there were benefits to being a grifter, especially when the grift took place in posh establishments with their own chefs. He was going to kill Hardison for not telling him Grimes was gay, but maybe it could wait until after lunch.

 **4.**   
**(James Sterling** _**—** _ _**International Man Destroying Mysteries)**   
_

Sterling was bored of watching Spencer schmooze Grimes over the lunch table. There were so many better things he could do than watch Spencer make love to a plate of ridiculously good looking steak sandwiches and fries, and  _damn_  he was hungry. That was always the part of his stubbornness when tracking down cons that he hated—that he always forgot to pack snacks.

Nate used to be the one who packed the snacks. Sometimes Maggie would pack Nate two lunches, knowing Nate would share his with Sterling and-

Sterling told his brain to shut up and go away, because sometimes his regret over his lost friendship translated like he was pining over an old lover, and now he felt kind of queasy, which helped with his hunger pangs, actually.

He had learned out to lip read a long time ago. It was a vital skill and had helped him net a bad guy on plenty of occasions. Unfortunately Grimes and Spencer weren't saying much at all, just some baseball and music chatter.

Wanting to have at least accomplished something, Sterling dialled Armitidge while he watched Spencer prattle on about some country singers. Armitidge was a little uncooperative, but he was much more convinced by the $5000 Sterling wired into his account. Armitidge was amused by the instructions - "I'll have one of what Spencer's having"- and was definitely convinced by the further $5000 that would follow for his silence to Ford's team. He would get the money back from IYS too. It was win-win for everyone.

Spencer and Grimes seemed to be now singing some of the songs they were talking about. The whole thing was a waste of time. Sterling should be somewhere else, doing something more interesting, somewhere where there might even be food. But still he lingered, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, worried about leaving, because sometimes he left before something good happened.

But his phone, insistently ringing in his hand, caught his attention and definitely counted as "something good"—because it was one of the IYS team. They'd spotted Sophie Devereaux in the museum.

Sterling told them to do nothing, just watch her and keep him informed. He grinned, and throttled the engine.

\- - - -

Tailing Devereaux was more difficult than tailing Spencer.

Or it would have been, if Sterling didn't have direct access to the surveillance room, replete with two security guards for the museum and three IYS guys.

He leaned forward, pressing his fingers against the glass screen of one of the small televisions. Devereaux didn't have any recording devices with her—they were forbidden in the museum now the extensions had been finished and all the security devices were in place—but she was spending more time looking at the room rather than the pieces of art, and she barely glanced at the dagger Malcolm Carver had told Grimes he was going to steal. Which of course, had to be the target for Ford and his team.

He was missing something. Devereaux had to be doing more than memorising the room. She was counting her steps between the exhibits—it was subtle, but her steps were too even for the way she was moving between them. She was committing the layout of the room to her memory for some reason. Sterling was confident he would pick up the reason why in good time. But she had to be doing something else. There was something off about her behavior.

"There."

Sterling pointed at the screen, jabbing at it with two fingers. All five of the guys turned to stare at his screen. He rolled his eyes when they didn't respond.

"There, she did it again."

It took one more time, one more small swift movement from Devereaux, before one of them got it.

"There," Sterling prompted.

"She's... blowing her nose. She's got a cold?" It was one of the museum security guards. Sterling made a mental note to recommend him to IYS, and he wondered if he got a consultancy fee for  _that_. He should ask.

"With a different color tissue each time," Sterling said.

He was met with five identical stares.

" _She's matching them to the shade on the walls_ ," Sterling explained, very loudly.

The five identical stares continued.

"But..." the same guard said, dazed, "why would someone be doing that?"

"Because they like the color?" the other one guessed, sniggering. He stopped sniggering when Sterling shot him a death glare.

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out." Sterling leaned back in the chair, rubbed his temples.

Ford was in Arlington, going after the dagger. Ford knew Sterling was there. Ford would want a plan to get his aim while probably wanting to humiliate Sterling too.

How did this all add up?

It did. It really did. Sterling felt he was so close to it, that if he reached out and just could touch it, graze it with his fingertips-

"Sir, Grimes is back. Should, uh, should we be throwing out the thief lady?" 

Sterling looked appraisingly at the screen, and he pushed himself to his feet. "No, I'll do it."

Spencer wasn't with Grimes, that was the first thing Sterling noticed as he strode out of the corridor that led to the small surveillance room. Too bad. He would have liked to out them both at the same time.

He pointed at the two guards by the door, then at Devereaux, and nodded his head at her furiously. Thankfully they were quicker than their counterparts in the video room. Devereaux noticed him, and the guards moving to her, just a moment too late. Still, Sterling enjoyed the moment they grabbed her by the arms.

Grimes looked between Devereaux and Sterling, perplexed. "Mr. Sterling, what's going on?"

"There must have been some sort of mistake," Devereaux said, in a languid Southern drawl. Sterling kept his smile, because her Southern charm was always very well faked. "I'm just enjoying the exhibits on this  _very_  hot day, don't you think it's warm, gentleman?" Devereaux smiled coquettishly up at the two guards. One of them released his grip a little. Sterling was definitely going to have Words with him later, capital W intended.

"Mr. Sterling, surely this lovely lady hasn't been misbehaving?" Grimes concern sounded true enough, but Sterling had been around enough to know it was a little forced, a little fake. Sterling had read Grimes' file. Not only was he as gay as a giraffe (were giraffes gay? And if not where did the saying even come from? Sterling vowed to look it up later) but he also didn't really care about individuals, or else he wouldn't have jumped for IYS' security offer, pushing doddery old Carver into the ditch on the way. Also, Grimes had been arrested once; it was on his record—for animal rights, though. Definitely not  _human_  ones.

"This lovely lady is Sophie Devereaux," Sterling said, and because it didn't hurt to be melodramatic, and it increased  _his_ profile, he added, "Probably the best grifter in this hemisphere. Now, we haven't been able to catch her doing anything wrong, but I don't think she's the sort of clientele we want wandering around here, is it?"

Devereaux immediately dropped all pretence at being a cultured, Southern belle. She stared at Sterling with a look that she probably thought could kill at twenty paces, but she'd dropped character, and as such, her expressions when acted out so exaggeratedly, were wrong. If anything, she just looked constipated. Sterling didn't bother to hide his grin.

"Gentleman," he said, "be sure to escort the  _lady_  outside." He made sure to emphasise  _lady_ , letting the irony drip through it. He kept his gaze on Devereaux, enjoying her discomfort. She was pretty pissed off, which meant it was likely he'd put a thorn in Ford's plan, and that amused him greatly.

"Make sure she's off my property by the time I get out of my office," Grimes said. Sterling nodded, and followed the guards with a struggling Devereaux outside.

\- - - -

Of course Ford was outside.

Sterling expected nothing less. Wherever he found Devereaux, Ford was usually hovering somewhere nearby. It had always been that way, even back in the IYS days when everything was good and  _normal_.

Ford came out of the trees nearby, dressed casually, slacks and a casual jacket even though it was definitely in the nineties. Even Sterling himself had sacrificed his usual jacket, shirt and tie for a black polo neck. Ford threw him something—a sealed bottle of water.

Sterling caught it, and held it out, eyebrows raised. Devereaux had already disappeared into the distance, leaving them alone. This was obviously one of those bravado moments, where Ford blustered and pretended he was better than everyone. Sometimes Ford got lucky, sometimes he really was that good, but one day, Ford was going to go flat on his face and Sterling was going to be first in line to see it.

"I thought about throwing you a tumbler, but if you dropped it, you'd look pretty stupid," Ford said.

Sterling opened the bottle and took a swig. He knew it wasn't poisoned or drugged. Ford liked the playing field honest and open, like he used to. Even back then, he was an idiot.

"So you're here to steal the Topkapi-replica dagger," Sterling said, without looking at Ford.

"I'm here to set things right," Ford said. Sterling risked a glimpse at Ford's face, but he needn't have bothered—Ford had this perpetual smug half-grin on his face that he probably thought was enigmatic, but really, just looked kind of stupid.

"Change the record, Nate." Sterling might call him  _Ford_  in his head, but he knew Ford was terribly over-emotional, and using his name was a siren call to trouble. One Ford would fall for. "You know you're just doing this because you're bored. And you want to get back at IYS one more time for something there can never be enough revenge for, for you."

"An honest man got trampled by a big corporation," Ford started, mildly.

"Blah, blah, blah." Sterling looked at him sourly. "You're not going to win."

"I don't always expect to," Ford said, with a shrug. "Just seems to work that I do. And in the process, if I completely humiliate you, well... I think you'll understand why I would count  _that_  as a win."

"The only person you're going to humiliate," Sterling said, turning to him fully, gripping the water bottle tightly, like it was Ford's neck and he finally had permission to squeeze, "is yourself."

Ford's expression faltered, and it definitely dropped into something enigmatic. Not that Sterling would ever tell him.

"I guess this means game on," Ford said, coolly.

"Believe me, the best man will win," Sterling returned.

He kept his expression as cool as possible as Ford nodded and walked off, presumably to meet up with Devereaux, and hopefully there would be panicking. Sterling himself felt taut, thrumming with energy. He knew he was better than them, whatever they were planning, but the worry, the potential that he could slip up, miss something, it vibrated under his skin, annoying like a bug worming its way into his blood stream.

He turned, stalking back into the museum, nearly knocking over some workmen moving a giant ass canvas into the vestibule of the museum. He growled, refusing to apologise. Ford wasn't pissed off. He wasn't pissed off  _enough_. He had a plan. What had he said? Something about winning,  _and_  humiliating Sterling.

What would humiliate Sterling? There was nothing. There wasn't anything Ford had on him that would humiliate him, because he'd never done anything wrong. He'd never succumbed to the dark side. He might not be the completely honest man Nathan Ford used to be, but he was squeaky clean as far as records went. There was nothing Ford could have on him now.

Which meant there was something Ford thought he could  _get_  on him. Maybe at the same time as stealing the dagger.

Sterling was missing something, but he would find it.

And when he did, Ford and his team would pay.

 

 **Part B:**   
**The Con**

 **0.**   
**(Edwin Armitidge** **—** _**The Forger** _ **)**

Edwin Armitidge was tired, but at least at the base of it all, he still enjoyed his work, and that was the main thing, right?

Once upon a time he had been a reputable artist, making fanciful relics from countries that didn't exist. But that fairytale life had been nothing but an illusion. As an artist he had sold reasonably well for someone in his field, maybe four pieces a year, bringing in maybe $80,000 profit by the end of the financial year once all the appropriate taxes had been paid and his studio rental had come out of it and his forge maintenance. It wasn't an amount to sniff at... apart from his forgery work brought him that much in a quarter of the time. Plus the amount he brought in from his front as a jeweller's.

He had a pretty sweet set-up. The FBI knew of his existence, but let him keep operating on his small-time job in return for his help on their big, big cases. And occasionally he got freelance jobs. Like this one for Eliot Spencer.

He owed a Spencer a favor or two for back in the day when a less-impressed Mark had sourced the forgery back to him, and Spencer stopped Edwin from being made into a human pancake, so making the Topkapi-replica- _replica_  dagger was fun enough. Spencer had mentioned there might be someone coming along to take a look at it, and that it was maybe okay, but making a  _replica_  of the Topkapi-replica-replica was not something Spencer had anticipated. Still, $10000 wasn't any to turn his nose up at, and technically he wasn't dropping Spencer in anything because he hadn't even mentioned Spencer's name to the Sterling fellow.

Spencer came by to pick up his copy, and thanked him.

Ten minutes later, the Sterling guy came in.

He looked exactly like Armitidge had pictured him, surly expression, dark clothes like he thought he was some sort of business ninja. Sweating in the heat. Armitidge liked the soaring Texan temperatures. He'd grown up in Alaska. Armitidge's life was a bundle of extremes all knotted together.

Armitidge handed Sterling the dagger replica when his phone chimed, indicating the money had gone in. Sterling promised the last $2000 when he was sure Armitidge had said nothing to Ford, although Sterling got a little angry when he tried to open the Topkapi-replica-replica. Armitidge shrugged at him. Spencer had only asked for a replica that  _looked_ like it, not behaved like it. A proper functioning replica would have taken another week, and cost more.

When he told Sterling this, Sterling sagged a little, looking confused. He still took the replica dagger. Armitidge shrugged. He'd done his job. It was none of his business what the two people did with their fake daggers.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow  _he'd_  been played, or forced to be a pawn in some giant weird game that he had no idea he was playing. But with his scorecard with Eliot cleared, and $8000 in the bank, and maybe $2000 more if this Sterling guy was stupid or honest, Armitidge shook that odd feeling away. He had better things to worry about.  
 ****

**1.**   
**(Nathan Ford** **—** _**The Man With Issues. And Sophie** _ _**'** _ _**s used tissues** _ **.)**

Nathan Ford was tired.

It was possibly due to the heat, or the answer to the ridiculous con he had come up with (not that he'd use the word ridiculous to describe it anywhere outside his own head; he was a fatigued alcoholic, not suicidal) or maybe it was just because one person's brain could only take so much of Sophie speaking before it just curled up and went catatonic.

She was complaining, and Nate wasn't exactly surprised. The movies had made everything look so easy, and everything so far had been a ton of work. She was in the middle of ranting about the fingernail she broke helping put up the fake second floor. This was the third time he'd heard this rant.

He decided to waylay her with something she understood: a complaint.

"Did you really have to actually blow your nose into these?" Nate questioned, breaking her off mid-flow. "Seriously?"

Sophie narrowed her eyes, and snatched the peach one he was waving. "I only properly used the ones that were the right shades."

"That makes it so much better," Nate commented, holding one of the soggier examples up against the paint tins. It looked close to the right color. Sophie sighed and redirected his hand forcibly to a tin one shelf down. He pulled it off the shelf and put it in the cart. She was better at this than he was.

Not that he'd say that out loud either.

"It's for verisimilitude, Nate," Sophie said, dragging her voice out into a whine. 

"Are you ever going to stop complaining? We need to get back to practice as soon as possible." He pushed the cart along to the whites, frowning at the selection. How could there be so many tins of different shades of  _white?_ Nate frowned at them all. Sometimes he thought the best con artists didn't spend their time cavorting over the globe carrying out heists, but were in a well-lit office of some large company's marketing department.

"Not while we're in Texas. I know Eliot's reacting as if we're in magic happy Grifter land, but if we have to stay much longer, I'm going to burn to a crisp." Sophie leant against one of the shelves, wafting her face with a paint selection leaflet.

"And you say that as if it's not an improvement," Nate managed with a straight face. She—quite rightly—belted him in the stomach with a large tin of  _Nordic Spa_. Also known as  _white_ , Nate grumped. Internally.

If Sophie knew he was whining internally as much as she was externally, well- she probably did. She knew him, much too well. He'd give in to the impulse to run, but he was kind of tired of that, too.

One more thing he would never say out loud.

 **2.**   
**(James Sterling** **—** _**The Man Who Got Hit By The Clue Bus And Survived** _ **)**

James Sterling was tired. Tired of Nathan Ford's never-ending melodrama and extended unresolved sexual tension with Miss. Sophie Devereaux. He thought enduring eight years of it alongside Nate at IYS was bad, but he was even doing it now, urgh.

He shook away those thoughts, frustrated. Ford could be as much of a melodramatic bastard as he liked. Sterling was finally, finally starting to understand what was going on, and it was marvellous. Ford had kind of brought his game this time.

But his game wasn't high enough this time. This was it, the time that Sterling was finally going to be able to bring Ford and his team down.

It had taken a bit of digging, but Sterling finally understood the connection between the team and their client, Carver. Carver was renowned for employing criminals to test out his security systems. It had been a lot of hard work over the last couple of days, but eventually Sterling had found an old picture of Carver and Parker in an old IYS file. Parker had been one of the thieves Carver employed to test his security. 

IYS were lazy and were using Carver's system, and it stood to reason that Parker would know the security system's faults. Oh, Carver had sold it as fully tested and flawless, but Parker was a very good thief—there was no way she would have told Carver ever flaw of his system. Carver was a nationally renowned security expert before IYS started systematically undercutting him. Parker would have left herself a backdoor, should she want to steal from a Carver-protected facility in the future.

That information found, he picked up the location of the rental car—outside a hardware store again, this time one of the big wholesale branches. Sterling took a risk based on the fact that the dagger was still in place and no assaults had been made on the museum's security to guess that the team still had the rental car.

He found Ford and Devereaux inside, matching up tissues to paint samples. Devereaux had been checking the colors of the walls and fixtures. Sterling matched it up in his head to the equipment Spencer had bought on that first day here.

They were building a replica of the museum. They had to be. But why?

Sterling mulled over the thought as he waited in the car park for Devereaux and Ford to pull away, and he pulled out his GPS tracker and watched where they were driving to. Back to the warehouses. Yes, of course, a large space in which to build a replica.

Ford was trying to steal the dagger. Ford wanted to humiliate him. It kept coming back to those two things. Ford was building a replica of the museum, down to the exact same shades. Sterling was willing to bet if he went to all the electronic stores, between them they would have sold enough cabling and cameras for a CCTV system just like in the museum.

A replica, what could Ford do with a replica. Practice the con, of course—that's what Ford had said to Devereaux, unaware of Sterling lurking in the aisle behind. But Ford wouldn't waste the exact specifications on a practice. They would need the exact shades.

A perfect replica. Maybe they were planning to drug them, have them trapped forcibly by their own security system in the fake museum while they robbed the real one. That seemed like Ford's style. It was mildly humiliating. But Ford had been cocksure about humiliating Sterling, like for his con to work the humiliation was automatic.

A replica of the room, where had Sterling seen that used before. No con they'd come across with IYS, but it was familiar, it was very familiar, it was-

Sterling almost laughed.

Did Ford think he was  _that_  stupid? 

Perhaps he did. It was a bold move. It was ridiculously bold. Sterling could see Ford's thought processes as clear as anything—Sterling knew every potential con that they could have chosen, so what would be as humiliating as a con which  _everyone_  knew?

Like the  _Ocean's Eleven_  remake replica room con?

Sterling knew he had to move fast. Now he had the paint, Ford would move fast. Tonight would be an excellent time for the con. Sterling needed proof, and a little more information, so as he gunned his engine, he loaded up his netbook, and did a little of the hacking he'd learned en route, finishing the routine in a little car park at a distance from the warehouses. Ford's Netflix account was ridiculously easy to hack into. Sterling grinned to himself, and checked the queue—there was a ton of stupid stuff on there,  _Sex in the City, Psych,_ and a bunch of heist movies. And  _Ocean's Eleven_  had been watched three times more than everything else.

Sterling got out of his car, pulled on a cap to cover his face, and covered the rest of the space to Ford's warehouse on foot. There was every chance they would be watching the cameras, just in case, but it had been several days now—there was also the chance they had slacked on their surveillance. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. It took him a little hunting to find the right warehouse. A bin full of empty water bottles of the same brand Ford had tossed him was his first clue, the empty Scotch bottle in amongst them a clear second, and the empty  _Orange Squeeze_  cans (Sterling knew Ford's hacker downed the stuff like oxygen) were the final clue. 

This was where they were.

It took him longer to climb up the drain pipe, prise open a small window, roll in and slither along the cat walk up high to get enough of a view of the warehouse. As soon as he saw the white railings, just like the ones at the museum's curved balustrade, Sterling had to resist the urge to punch the air in triumph—1) he might be discovered, 2) he would fall off and _definitely_  be discovered.

The set up was amazing. The hacker and Devereaux were painting the walls, while Ford was drilling Spencer and Parker through a weird rotation of lights. It must be the museum's sensor patterns. The patterns were crazy, rotational, a masterpiece of security, and even Parker was having trouble with it, her small tiny body contorting almost painfully.

"Again," Ford barked, when Parker bumped against one of the exhibits. "Again," when Spencer moved just half an inch too far to the right.

"Nate, come on," Spencer protested, "the museum won't even have this rotation. We've practiced the ten common ones. We can do this. We're ready."

"Again," Ford said.

"But-"

"No buts. Sterling cannot win this one, you hear me? Are you in or are you out, because if you're out, you're out permanently." Ford's voice was hard. Sterling couldn't see his face, only a tense line of his shoulders, and that was enough. Ford was losing it, big style, and when he went down, he was going to take his team down with him. It was _awesome_. "Again," Ford commanded.

Sterling waiting until they were fully immersed in practicing for the sensors before wriggling backwards and sliding out of the window. Quickly checking around, he dropped to the ground, and went around the back of the nearing warehouses so he wouldn't be caught.

So Ford's team thought they could handle the light sensors. That might be the case. And they probably thought they could switch the camera feeds onto their replica, so the guards wouldn't even know their museum was being robbed.

And Sterling was going to let Ford think his plan was going okay. Let Ford switch the camera feed. Let him try and beat the lights.

Because what Ford thought was going to be there, as opposed to what was actually going to be there from tonight, was a million miles away from the truth.

Which seemed, sadly, to be Ford's final destination in life and try as he might to distance himself, Sterling couldn't help but be sad at the thought.

 **3.**   
**(Eliot Spencer** **—** _**The Man Who Always Slightly Disapproves of Nate** _ _**'** _ _**s Plans, and Most Of The Time For Good Reason, Too** _ **)**

Eliot Spencer was tired. 

A little from the house of practice Nate had put them through, but mostly tired of Nate himself. One of these days, his plans were going to fold up again and they were going to have nowhere to go but Eliot. Again. How many times was he going to have to sacrifice his soul for someone else?

One day he'd get over it, but today was not that day.

He was hungry, too. That meal with Grimes seemed so long ago, Nate had barely given them time for the basics, and Parker just kept offering him fortune cookies in lieu of real food. He was frustrated, and the sooner this con was done, the better. He thought being in Texas would be fun, but Eliot felt as trapped here as anywhere else. There wasn't anywhere in the world he could go to escape himself.

The backdoors Parker had left for herself in Carver's security system were still there, unchecked and unchanged. Hardison was able to smoothly switch the security display from the real museum room to their replica room without a problem, and the spray Nate had given him to reveal the light beams showed the sensors were in a pattern they had practiced. Eliot dealt with the guards patrolling the outside rooms easily. Well, they'd have a headache in the morning. Eliot didn't feel too bad for that—they should be better at their job.

The con was going to work. Which was just frustrating, because Eliot knew he could fight his way out of this one. He could beat any of the security guards, all of them, and the local police. He unclenched his stomach, unhappy with the truth—that he had been hoping this would be the con Nate would fail in. Because if he failed now, there would be pieces to pick up. If he failed at a con with more at stake... No one kept going down at the speed and angle of descent Nate was careening at without falling, and falling hard. Eliot only hoped he could stop everyone else from toppling over with him.

Eliot took a deep breath. They'd got past all the other sensors to get here, and any one of them could have set off the alarms and ruined the con, and he could do this too. He stepped forward, and froze.

The small click under his feet was very distinctive.

"Uh, Parker?" Eliot had to whisper. Anything above a whisper would set off the sound sensors.

"Stop being a baby and come on," Parker whispered back, and then saw him frozen. "It's not that hard," she said.

"That's what she said," Eliot quipped automatically. Parker looked at him blankly. Eliot shook his annoyance away. "I'm stood on a pressure sensor."

"Huh?" Parker squirted her bottle of spray, and danced through the lights neatly, somersaulting out of the light zone to stand next to him. She crouched down, pressing her fingers around the edge of the floor tile he was on. "Huh, you're right."

"Don't sound so surprised."

Parker straightened. "There's more of them. Eight. I can see the slight depressions. We'll be okay if we-" She squirted the spray one more time, the droplets spreading out far. The lights revolved and span across the floor. Eliot mentally traced the path they would both have to take to get to the dagger, and he swallowed. "If only one of us goes."

"But we need both of us to deal with the sensors on the monolith," Eliot whispered uselessly.

"Unless-" Parker swooped away from him, and did a couple of complicated cartwheels, and then pulled something from her pack. A rope and hook. She flung it up and pulled herself up. The rope trailed down behind her, and she pulled it up and away from one of the moving sensors barely in time. She grinned at Eliot, upside down, and shimmied up the rope. "Ah-hah, found it." She kept her voice at a bare whisper, the ear piece thankfully carrying it to his ear.

"What?"

"What'll go off if we hit any of those pressure sensors," Parker whispered.

"If I step off this spot, you mean," Eliot returned.

"Stop whining like a baby," Parker said, shimmying down the rope.

"Well? What is it?" Eliot said.

"Birds. You step off there, a cage of birds is going to escape." Parker pulled a face. "I think Sterling watched the same movie as us."

"Except in our case, just one stray bird could set up any number of the sensors, triggering the alarm and locking us down in here," Eliot whispered. "Awesome." Except awesome didn't seem to cover everything. Eliot was missing something else. Something else bad.

"What?" Parker said, after navigating the light sensors back to him. "You look like Hardison's being trying to explain the plot of  _Deathnote_  to you again."

"Who would even kill with a notebook anyway," Eliot started, angrily. He calmed himself. "Parker, it's worse than we thought."

"Worse than you being trapped in a museum that will basically lock us inside itself if you move even one inch?" Parker said.

"Yeah," Eliot said. "Because we're using ear pieces. Nate got us in here just fine, but since we've been in this room, and gotten ourselves in trouble, why hasn't he said anything to us?"

Parker thought about it for a second.

"Uh-oh," she eventually managed.

Eliot's expression was tight. "I think 'uh-oh' sort of covers it quite well."

 **4.**   
**(James** _**I always win** _ **Sterling** **—** _**The man who, oh, just see his name** _ **)**

There were a lot of moments in his life that James Sterling had enjoyed voraciously. And several of them had happened in the last few minutes.

Sneaking into their van while their attention was on the monitors was delightful. The balmy Texan night was such that they didn't notice any change in temperature when he slid the van door open. And Ford's expression when he tossed him the water bottle was amazing. It would fuel Sterling's daydreams for a long, long time. It was a pity the hacker had shut down the monitors so quickly, as he would have liked to see Parker and Spencer fail, but Sterling had learned that you took your wins when you got them and didn't push for more, in case you lost the wins you had.

Behind Sterling were four burly security guards. IYS recruited them especially. Sterling wasn't taking any chances with this win.

He got them out of the van and crushed their ear pieces. As much as he melodramatically wanted to cackle in Parker and Spencer's ears, he knew the instant Ford got hold of one he would magically say some code word or other which would help them escape. Ford was sneaky like that. No, it was best that Spencer took them and held them until the museum shut itself down. Which was what would happen as soon as the birds escaped.

Sterling carefully explained what he had done. He especially liked the way Ford's expression got tighter and tighter, and the way the hacker kept staring at the museum, worry plain on his young face.

It wouldn't be much longer.

It couldn't.

The minutes stretched on, feeling stupidly long. Sterling knew it was only in his mind. When you were waiting for something which took even a tiny bit longer than it should, seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours. Even so, these minutes felt way too long, and the guards holding his quarries were shuffling, as if to say  _I was only hired so long, y'know_ , and Sterling—even though he didn't want to—looked down at his watch, and then back up at the building. Where the dawn's sun was slowly creeping over the top of the dark building, a brilliant spray of light.

"No," Sterling said. " _No_."

It wasn't possible.

Ford smiled, wide and genuine. "Yes," he said. "Oh, yes."

"I don't believe you." Sterling yanked out his phone. "Grimes. It's me, Jim Sterling, the IYS security consultant. I think we may have had an incident and I need you to bring the police to check it out."

\- - - -

Sterling was furious. As soon as Grimes turned up to key in the code and unlock the museum, Sterling was there with him, leaving Ford, Devereaux and the hacker in the capable hands of the local police while he sorted this out. Spencer and Parker had to still be in there, trapped. It was the only solution.

They weren't. The shutters that were supposed to come down if the sensors were broken hadn't even deployed. Sterling had checked the security system himself on that front—the shutters weren't avoidable. He proved it now in front of Grimes and the police—breaking one of the sensors before Grimes shut it down.

The shutters slammed down, locking them in the room. Grimes opened it almost immediately with a retinal scan and his fingerprint and a 14 digit code that Sterling was almost positive couldn't be broken.

How had they managed it? He had no idea, and that was what made him angrier still.

Of course, there was another option—they hadn't managed it. The dagger was still there.

"Permission to check the dagger," Sterling ground out. Grimes nodded, and did the complicated steps to open the case. Sterling lifted the glass gingerly, noting it would be possible for a thief like Parker to maybe get this far, but not to move the dagger. The dagger was on such a sensitive sensor that the instant it was lifted, the very instant it was lifted even a tiny, tiny amount, the whole place should have locked down.

Sterling picked up the dagger, and before he could panic any more than he had to, he pulled at the handle.

The dagger did not come out of the hilt.

It was the forgery.

Sterling howled, throwing the forgery to one side in complete frustration, and glancing around wildly. How had they done this? Grimes was looking sad and stunned, and the police were muttering between themselves, unsure. The idiot security guards, both the museum and IYS alike, had come out of the room and were looking at the scene stunned. Sterling hoisted himself up onto the dagger's pedestal and jumped up, climbing up to where he had deployed the birds himself, ready to fly around the room.

Ready so he could say the Topkapi words to Nathan Ford and rub Ford's failure in his face: "A little bird told me."

The birds were sat there in their cage, milling around, chirping happily. 

Sterling shouted incoherently at them, and jumped down, stalking around the pedestal in frustration. How the  _hell_  had Ford and his team managed this?

He thought about the past few days, and thought, and thought.

The Netflix queue, what was he missing? What else had been on it?  _Sex and the city? Serenity? Inside Man?_

Inside Man, yes. That film where Clive Owens built a fake wall. How did that help him? Sterling remembered getting mad before, snarling at a couple of handymen and a really stupidly large canvas, yes. That had been moved into the entrance, but that could have been Ford's team. He pushed past Grimes and the police, and ran to the entrance, yanking down the large messy painting on the stupidly big canvas and yelling in annoyance when there was nothing behind it.

"That was a Pollock that cost me $500,000," Grimes said behind him, still looking stunned. Sterling looked from him to the canvas he had torn from the wall.

"I think you'd better come with us," one of the police said.

"Don't you even know who I am?" Sterling demanded, scrambling for his Interpol badge. 

"Seize him."

Sterling felt them grab him, and he sagged. Ford. This was all Ford's doing. But how? Well, at least he'd be in a jail cell with him for a while. Arlington didn't have a very big local jail, so Sterling would be in with at least one of them, and he was fairly confident he could make them tell him how they'd managed this stupid feat.

Except, of course, when he was dragged outside the building, Ford, Devereaux, the hacker and the four security guards IYS sent him were all gone.

Sterling let himself be taken away. He didn't have the energy to fight any more.

 **5.**   
**(James** _**Maybe I Lost This Time** _ **Sterling versus Nathan Ford** **—** _**The Man Who Might Not Be Honest Any More But The Man Who At Least Knows The Truth)**   
_

It didn't take Sterling very long to use his Interpol pulls to get him out of jail, especially with the fact that Hardison had only temporarily played the footage of the replica museum to the security guard's televisions; the CCTV system had all the original footage of what actually happened.

Well, a few key scenes were miraculously missing, like Devereaux's stakeout of the place, but Sterling got to watch the full 48 hours of tape up to the end of the con, with Sterling going a little crazy at the end of it.

He still couldn't figure out how they'd done it.

He had to leave his apartment for food eventually (Interpol had given him a week off after the debacle and strongly suggested he not consult again for a little while) and when he came back, he wasn't too surprised to find Ford and his whole team sat in his apartment, and the Topkapi-replica dagger at his place at the table.

Sterling sat down and held his hand out. Ford pushed the bottle of water across the table and Sterling took it, shaking his head.

"You got me," Sterling admitted. "No point lying about it."

"You can still win," Ford said, smiling that strange smile of his. "If you take the dagger back to Grimes, tell him you've retrieved it on behalf of Malcolm Carver."

"Grimes is on the board of Six Flags. Who also use IYS. If he goes back to Carver, they'll follow suit, and so will the other businesses run by the other board members." Sterling shook his head slowly. "And because I'm still such a self-serving utter bastard-"

"-you'll do it," Ford finished. "And you'll keep your reputation, and you've saved the day."

"Which is a win," Sterling said. "And I've been humiliated." He smiled slowly to himself. "All right, I'll do it. One condition."

"You wanna know how it was done," the hacker said, and spun his laptop around. "Watch and learn, my friend."

"I'm not your friend," Sterling muttered, leaning forwards to see the screen better and picked up the dagger, sliding it out of the hilt and back. It was the real thing. Ford wouldn't try and cheat with the dagger at this point—he was getting what he wanted, Carver in his job, and Ford might not be an honest man, but Ford was honest with what he said. It was a small distinction but it made a world of difference.

"Like you have so many of those," Ford said, as if quoting someone. Spencer reacted as if they might have been his words, once upon a time.

"I used to have more," Sterling said, directly to Ford, knowing it would hurt Ford. It did, but it hurt Sterling too. "Come on. Wow me with your brilliance."  
"Maybe when we hear from Malcolm about his new job," Ford said, slowly.

Sterling groaned, but reached for his phone.

\- - - -

It took a couple of hours, and Ford and his team stayed there the whole time, watching him with amused expressions. Sterling supposed they had every right to celebrate their win. He allowed them it—it would be their only time. And he hadn't lost  _entirely_. He clung onto that fiercely, desperately ignoring the fact it was only because Ford was  _allowing_  him the win.

"Okay," Sterling said. "I've fulfilled my end. How did you do it?"

"The first thing you need to know is that we did not need the practice at defeating the light sensors in the museum. Parker's excellent, and Eliot knows how to move his body," Ford said.

"So you... practiced until I found you?" Sterling frowned. "That seems like a ridiculous waste of time."

"Nope," the hacker said. "We were making these." He pushed the enter key. Ford and his whole team were there in masks so they couldn't be seen. They must have taken those off the time Sterling approached. Sterling watched as they all went through the different permutations of light sensors, showing how to beat them. Even Ford managed it—Sterling recognised him, his body shape, and the same trousers he was wearing the day he baited Sterling outside the museum with the water bottle. At least now he understood the jacket—he was covering up his t-shirt.

Which said  _Carver Security Solutions_.

"Carver's showing these to Grimes as we speak. I couldn't count on you calling Grimes later and sweet-talking it all back. Grimes is going to want the man on his side who can beat all these videos." Ford leaned back, appraising Sterling's expression. Sterling tried his best not to look impressed.

"Okay. So how did you defeat my birds?" Sterling said.

"That was terribly melodramatic of you. Oh, by the way, Grimes isn't too impressed at IYS security using birds. He's an animal activist, back when, you know." Ford stretched slightly.

 _Also, Grimes had been arrested once; it was on his record—for animal rights, though._  Sterling had known that. He resisted the urge to sigh.

"So yet another thing to ensure Carver keeps his job," Sterling realized.

"You got it. Anyway, I knew you wouldn't be able to resist using  _A little bird told me_ ," Ford said. "So I sent Parker in with a back-up plan just in case."

Spencer bristled, which was interesting. So Ford wasn't trusting Spencer with everything. Sterling filed it away for later consideration.

"The back-up plan?" Sterling questioned.

 _“That's because you only like fiction if it's Roald Dahl,“ Eliot said, ignoring him._

 _“His were the only books Archie ever let me steal,“ Parker explained._

"We were stealing great movie heists. One movie heist we knew without looking for it came from a book. There's a brilliant moment in Roald Dahl's  _Danny, Champion of the World_  where the father and son execute a heist and drug birds," Ford said.

"Grimes has allergies," Eliot said. 

 _Grimes frowned at him, then looked at Eliot's gaze—directed at his own glass. “Oh, the orange juice, no, uh, additives? For my allergies. I'm on these anti-histamines.“_

 _“Oh, the ones that make you drowsy.“_

"And he has an office in his museum," Parker said. "People on medication always keep a spare in their office just in case."

 _“Make sure she's off my property by the time I get out of my office,“ Grimes said. Sterling nodded, and followed the guards with a struggling Devereaux outside._

"In  _Danny, Champion of the World_  they put the drug in the bird's food. I didn't leave any food for them on site," Sterling said.

 _He was hungry, too. That meal with Grimes seemed so long ago, Nate had barely given them time for the basics, and Parker just kept offering him fortune cookies in lieu of real food._

"We had some food on us," Spencer said. "Then it didn't matter how many times we depressed the sensors on the floor. You only tied them to the bird cage, not the main alarms."

"Okay, so how did you get the dagger out? I specifically programmed that pedestal myself. Even the tiniest amount of the dagger being lifted away would have sent the system crashing down," Sterling said.

"That's the best part," Ford said. " _You_  did."

"Huh?" Sterling stared. "I did not."

"You really did," Spencer said, barely stifling a laugh.

Sterling stared at him.

"You know in the film  _Topkapi_  where the guy realizes who's to blame because, well, you knew the catchphrase— _a little bird told me_ ," Devereaux started. "You do know another name for the footage from security cameras, right?"

"A birds-eye view," Sterling said, slowly. "Oh, oh, oh-" His eyes widened.

"Yeah," Ford said. "That's what happened."

 _“After she got the lid stuck to the base with super glue,“ Hardison said, sounding wounded._

 _“What are you getting mad about,“ Parker returned immediately, “I unstuck it. Hand it over.“_

 _“Yeah, you unstuck it by pouring white spirits on my machine.“_

"The replica dagger was deliberately made with the hilt stuck to the handle," Sterling said. "And you knew I would know that."

 _Sterling got a little angry when he tried to open the Topkapi-replica-replica. Armitidge shrugged at him. Spencer had only asked for a replica that_ looked _like it, not behaved like it. A proper functioning replica would have taken another week, and cost more._

“I swapped it quickly for our replica,” Parker said, playing a clip on screen when a heavily disguised Parker stepped in dressed as a cop and made the switch. “You threw it a long way. Thanks for that.”

 _Sterling howled, throwing the forgery to one side in complete frustration, and glancing around wildly._

"You're a clever bastard, Nathan Ford." Sterling leaned back, balancing the dagger between his hands. 

Ford got to his feet, his team following the motion.

"One day it's going to all come tumbling down. You're good." Sterling got to his feet too, leaning against his table, not bothering to chase them. He wouldn't get very far, because Ford's team are clever, and fast, and loyal. But Sterling saw the crack forming between Spencer and Ford, even if Ford didn't, and maybe that loyalty had an expiration date. "But you're not as good as you think you are."

"I've heard that before," Ford said, letting his team out, locking gazes with Sterling one more time before sailing out, letting the door slam shut behind them.

"Yeah," Sterling said, to the empty room. "You heard it. But you weren't listening." He sank back down on his seat, playing with the dagger, knowing he had to go do his part in Ford's weird game soon. If he was lucky, he wouldn't run into Ford again for a long time. 

Not because he was scared of losing - because Ford was steps closer to self-implosion than he even had been when he lost Sam. And when Ford finally exploded, he was going to take people out with him. Sterling planned to be as far away from that explosion as possible. He had no intention of being Nathan Ford's collateral damage, like Maggie had been the first time, standing square in the path of Hurricane Nate and getting burned.

No intention at all.


End file.
